


The Last Sunrise

by ShippersList



Series: Resoni [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Battlefield, Everybody Dies, Forbidden Love, M/M, POV Open
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-14 18:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3421280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippersList/pseuds/ShippersList
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a battle they were destined to lose. They knew it, and yet, they went. </p><p>Song<br/>Hans Zimmerman: <a href="http://open.spotify.com/track/4TToQOmdWV7xAkiPzUekWC">Barbarian Horde</a> from the movie Gladiator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> • Blatant abuse of pompous battle music. Absolutely no historical or any other kind of accuracy whatsoever. This is bloody and gory, and everybody dies. You have been warned.
> 
> • Special thanks to cterbogt for the grammar sweep!

[](http://imgur.com/DN4SSbo)

 

The morning dawned bleak and grey. The air was painted foggy by the ragged breathing of men and the few horses they had left. They were all exhausted beyond reason, but it didn’t matter. They would probably die this day.

It had been a foolhardy endeavor from the start. He had known it like they all had, but they had followed their General willingly. He was well aware that the General had recognized they were doomed from the moment he had received the order, but he had led and kept on leading them anyway. He was like that: when an order was given, he carried it out, never flinching from the responsibility.

The woods were dense and forbidding. There were far too many places for the Horde to hide in and then attack; to pour over them in one wave after another, hacking their way through them and leaving behind a trail of battered, bloody bodies. It had happened so many times already and it was going to happen again, until they all were dead. It probably wouldn’t take much longer.

Their numbers had dropped considerably from the start. The General had led his troops, two hundred of his finest, to the appointed area, knowing that none of them was coming back alive. They all had accepted their fates, but did it diminish their performance? No, not at all. They fought like they always had, with fervor and conviction, with the name of the Gods on their lips, following the bright shield of their General. Where he led, they would follow. The troops loved their General.

Mist curled around his boots as he made his way towards the General’s tent. Strictly speaking, helping the General to don his armor wasn’t exactly his job, but they had fallen into their routine a long, long time ago, when they had been brothers-in-arms instead of a general and his first. As the General had risen through the ranks to his position, he had followed, content to stay near him, as his trustee and friend. Neither of them had ever questioned the bond between them, and their men respected and loved them too much to ask anything.

Besides, none of it mattered anymore.

When he entered the tent, the General was already up. Or perhaps he had never slept. Sleep was becoming overrated, a waste of the precious little time they had left. He stopped by the flap and looked at the General. He was sitting at the table, frowning at the map smoothed flat in front of him. There was a slight frown between his eyes, and a tired tension about his frame. He looked like a man who knows he’s at the end of his options, but is still trying to make a difference — trying to make everything right, despite of knowing there’s nothing left to do.

”Morning,” he said and stepped closer.

“Rise and shine, rise and shine,” the General commented with a wry smile that almost covered his exhaustion. ”How are our men on this fine morning?”

”Ready to die.”

”Excellent,” the General grinned, but his eyes were tight and sad. He was an exceptional fighter and leader, but he hated wasting lives for nothing. And their troops were going to be a giant pile of waste.

”Would you like something to eat first, or shall I help you don your armor?”

”Is there anything left to eat?”

He shrugged. ”Not really, no. But it never hurts to ask, does it?”

The General gave a dry chuckle, closed his eyes and shook his head a little, just a small move from one side to the other, and winced.

”Still sore?”

The General nodded.

He bit his lip, and for a split second, he was afraid. Then he exhaled and decided to have this, now. He stepped to stand behind the General and rested his hands on the tense shoulders, asking for permission. The General jerked but didn’t get up or reprimand him. He moved his hands gently, carefully, like the frame of muscle and bones was something fragile and brittle; kneaded the tight-knit muscles loose, worked out the knots and cramps, and traced the tendons and veins palpable through the tunic. The General sat in silence, his eyes closed and his breathing even, and, for a moment, they forgot where they were.

Then, a horse snickered outside the tent, a guard called out for another, and the moment was gone.

His hands froze on the General’s shoulders, reluctant to let go. The General turned his head ever so slightly, and the warmth of his breath washed over his fingers.

He swallowed.

”I think it’s time for the armor now,” the General said quietly.

He nodded. ”Yes, of course,” he said aloud after realizing that the General hadn’t seen his nod.

They had gone through the motions of donning the armor so many times that it was routine, a series of automatic movements that no longer needed conscious attention. But today was different. He placed every part of the armor on with precision, with a meticulous concentration and care, triple checking every buckle and knot; partially because he needed to make sure they were properly fastened, partially because he _knew_ that, after he stepped back to nod that everything was ready, he would never touch the armor again.

He was stalling, he knew. He needed to savor these moments, needed to make them last. But there were only so many buckles to re-check, only so many knots to tighten, and then he had to step back. He closed his eyes for a fleeting moment, then drew breath and raised his head to look at the General.

The man in front of him was magnificent. He radiated strength and authority, his stance one of a natural leader. He was a man who commanded loyalty and obedience, not by force but by charisma and example. The General was ruthlessly honest and just and demanded as much from himself as he did from his troops. He was fiercely loyal to his men, and they returned it by tenfold.

But his most striking feature were his eyes. They seemed to see right through you, into your heart and your mind, and they shone with power. Sometimes he was sure they glowed in the dark. But now they were dull, tired, and infinitely sad. It broke something inside him.

The General sighed. ”Time to go.”

The troops were a ragged bunch, but they were all there, because once one became a part of the General’s troops, one left only by death. It was an honor and a privilege, and every single one of the remaining thirty-six soldiers knew it. Most of them had already lost their shields, their armors were battered and broken, their helmets dented and their swords chipped. They were a literal bloody mess, but they didn’t care.

The General rode in front of them. His destrier was as tired and battered as the troops and his rider, but the horse emanated the same kind of utter confidence and power as the General did. They painted an surreal image of something invincible, of something otherworldly, as the Sun rose from behind the horizon and painted them with a bright halo.

”This is it,” the General shouted. ”This is our last stand, our last day on this earth. Our last sunrise. We know what lies behind those trees, we know what’s waiting for us. And we welcome it with our arms open wide. Let them come!

”IAIADIX! BALTIM! TELOCH!” The General called, his voice ringing like a great bell, and the troops answered in kind, generating a chorus of a much larger crowd.

His throat constricted in the silence that followed. He looked at the General, sitting tall and proud on his saddle, and thought, _By Gods, I love that man_. Their eyes met and the General inclined his head in greeting and gave him a small, crooked smile.

And then, it started.

 

* * *

 

A battle, at its finest, is an elaborated dance, where two parties engage and disengage, seeking for the opening to strike in earnest, showing skill and cunning. But this? This was not a battle, this was slaughter.

The Horde poured from the woods in a steady, howling stream, a live ocean of devils with axes and swords, a mass of chaos and terror. They swarmed over the pitiful remains of their troops that still held steady, ready to fight, ready to die. Wave after wave after wave, death and destruction, no mercy.

He glanced swiftly around while swinging his sword to relieve a barbarian from his head, and saw one of their troops go down, an axe cutting him in half from neck to groin. He didn’t have the time to remember the name, not when he was too busy trying to stay alive for a fraction of time longer; to swing his sword one more time, to hack down one more enemy. He had lost his helmet long ago, his shield was shattered, and his arms ached from the exertion, but he swung and swung, and was grimly pleased with every limb he managed to severe.

Time lost its meaning, and everything was _lift — swing — wrench —breathe — turn — swing_ , over and over again. He could barely see from the blood running from a wound on his brow, and he wiped his face on his arm as he swung his sword. His feet slipped on the bloody ground and he stumbled on the remains of his friends and his enemies, on broken bodies and dropped weapons, on dreams long lost and forgotten.

He lost himself on the familiar haze of killing, where nothing mattered, until he heard a horrible sound and snapped out of it. He jerked his head around and saw the General’s destrier go down as the enemy had smashed its front legs. The General didn’t have time to get off from his saddle, and he went down, trapped under the horse screaming in panic and pain. The General let out a hoarse cry, and he knew he had to get to him.

Something landed on his back and his legs gave out. He fell on his knees, but it didn’t stop him. He had to get to the General. He _needed_ to get to his General. He started to crawl, slightly surprised when he wasn’t immediately hacked down. Perhaps they thought he was no longer a threat.

And then he saw why they didn’t bother with him anymore: apart from the General, he was the last one alive. They didn’t bother with him anymore, because the Horde Chieftain had seen the General.

The Chieftain made calmly his way to the still thrashing destrier, and, with a flick of his blade, ended its suffering. In the silence that followed, he was able to hear the General’s harsh panting.

”What are you waiting for? Do it!” The General ordered, his voice calm under the pain.

The Chieftain inclined his head and nodded at a mountain of a man beside him. The man raised an enormous sword, and he couldn’t let it happen, not like this.

“NO!” He screamed and scrambled towards the General. He was immediately kicked down, but he didn’t care. ”Wait!” He pleaded again, looking the Chieftain straight in the eye.

Something flickered in the dark gaze. The Horde Chieftain raised his hand and made them wait, then, with a small gesture of his hand, ordered his man to let him get up.

“No mercy,” the Chieftain informed in a guttural growl.

He exhaled and nodded. ”No mercy,” he echoed with a smile and started to crawl.

It felt like forever to cross the distance to the General, but he didn’t mind. The barbarians dragged the corpse of the horse off from the General, who cried out and coughed up blood at the jolts on his body. The destrier had blocked him from seeing the General, but as soon as the coughing subsided, the General saw him, and he didn’t look away.

The power of his eyes drew him in, like beacons of light guiding him home. His legs were no longer working anymore, and he pulled himself forward with his arms, ignoring the flashes of pain on his abdomen and the blood running from his temple. His only concern was his General, who was waiting for him, like he had always been.

”You,” the General whispered brokenly, when he finally reached him.

”Yes.”

It was a simple answer, and nothing more was needed. He crawled even closer to cradle his General’s cheek with his hand and lowered his forehead against his General’s. The General’s hand curled around his arm and he smiled.

“Yes,” he whispered again and pressed his lips against the lips of the man he loved. He didn’t hear the Chieftain give the order. Neither did he feel the sword that pierced them, sealing them together.

They kissed, and they were free.

**Author's Note:**

> I warned you, remember?
> 
> According to [this](http://www.sacred-texts.com/pag/enoch1.txt) Enochian dictionary:  
> • Iaiadix = Honor  
> • Baltim = Justice  
> • Teloch = Death
> 
> If destiel was ever to become canon (which I sincerely doubt), this is pretty much how I picture it to happen.


End file.
